


Where The Winter Sunshine Crept In

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Hermione is a workaholic!, Humor, Knitting, Socks, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Hermione wanted to do after the war, was live life as she saw fit. Unfortunately, someone isn't exactly happy with her methods and asks for help. Oh, and there's the issue of socks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiHnn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/gifts).



> Written for MiHnn at the Granger Enchanted Santa Fic Exchange. Direct quotes from Charles Dickens, _A Christmas Carol_ , as well as from the HP books, _Goblet of Fire_ and _Half-Blood Prince_. Gratuitous use of canon, AU in that Harry only has one child - Albus. 
> 
> Many, MANY thanks to my betas - Stgulik, Reynardo, and UniquePOV. 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

Dumbledore was dead, to begin with.

Well, he was more than dead. By this point in time, the one hundred and eighty-three year old wizard – give or take a few hours – was a pile of magical dust within the white tomb. It had been seven years since the Headmaster had toppled over the parapet, falling from the Astronomy Tower on a late spring evening. The purveyor of his death, Severus Snape, was dead, too – killed some months later by the very master he claimed to serve.

These events are significant, dear reader, as you will soon find out. 

There had been a great and terrible war: death, life and rebirth swirled amongst its ruins. After the smoke had cleared, the price of victory had been counted, and it was more than some people – most notably, one Hermione Granger – could bear to pay. 

She was intelligent, brave – foolishly so, at times – a champion of those who could not fight for themselves, and totally oblivious of the attention she garnered from certain people at any given time. This may seem quite trifling in the whole scheme of things, but it was a combination of these particular traits which led to her current situation.

Because she was exceedingly intelligent, she passed her N.E.W.T.s with the highest score ever to come out of Hogwarts – barring Severus Snape’s, that is. Though he was no longer amongst the living, he would have been pleased to know that she did not surpass him. It wouldn’t have mattered that she was only one point shy of his score – she knows; she checked, and rechecked again several days later. To him, it would’ve been a matter of principle. 

Regardless, after leaving Hogwarts, Hermione took an apprenticeship in the Care of Magical Creatures within the Ministry. Thanks to hard work, long hours – including weekends, holidays, and even working while sick – and an obsessive attention to detail, she was able to rise within the ranks at a phenomenal rate until she reached her full potential in that division. She accomplished this in a scant sixteen months and earned the lead position. 

But employees of the Ministry hated dealing with her due to her pedantic nature. Unless you were a close friend, had an appointment which had to have been arranged months prior, or had found out that centaurs were trying to crossbreed with unicorns, Hermione Granger would not take the time to see anyone. It had been this way for the past five years.

Because she was brave – foolishly so, at times – she had seen many friends and loved ones die throughout her years as a student, and even some just after leaving school. Each extinguished life had taken its toll on her battered soul until there was nothing but an empty shell where her vitality used to reside. She often ruminated over how many ways she could’ve stepped in front of her best friend, Ronald Weasley, when a curse from Bellatrix Lestrange had killed him. Sometimes she thought of ten different ways; others times, it was fifty-six. Some days, it was none. She had even completed an Arithmancy model once to calculate the odds of reaching Ron in time before Bellatrix’s hex had struck him square in the chest. The results hadn’t been optimistic, so she’d hidden the notes in a desk drawer, accessible only with the right combination on an intricate ward. 

Because she was a champion of those who could not fend for themselves, her S.P.E.W. campaign became even more important to her once she reached the head of the division. She was often lauded and vilified, in turns, by the wizarding world for her work concerning house-elves. And it didn’t stop with house-elves; any creature that had been persecuted in the past thousand years was a candidate for her undivided attention. If she was not attending a symposium on the behaviours of certain classes of beings, she was actively protesting their cruel treatment within wizarding society, or writing propaganda that touted the injustices of wizarding culture in general. The Ministry, including Minister Shacklebolt himself, was exasperated even on the best of days. However, they couldn’t deny that she got results of the highest calibre, results which reflected positively on the British Ministry and on the Minister. The whole of the Minister’s cabinet frequently placed wagers on if Hermione ever left her office or not, or even if she went home, for she was often seen burning the midnight oil.

And because she was totally oblivious of the attention she garnered from certain people at any given time, Hermione Granger had not noticed that Harry Potter had been slowly and steadily falling in love with her over the past fourteen years. They told each other that they loved one another on the rare occasions they met by chance at Ministry functions, but Hermione had not noticed when Harry’s tone had changed, when his looks began to linger, when his verdant eyes began to speak volumes. 

She didn’t even notice when Harry, in a futile attempt at happiness, decided to marry Ginny Weasley. She never observed his looks, as he stood at the altar, begging with his eyes for her to rescue him from his idiocy. She pointedly ignored Ginny becoming pregnant with a son that looked exactly like Harry – black hair, sage-green eyes, and a dimple in his right cheek. She never even remarked that there was anything of consequence when Harry, tired of the charade he’d forced himself to play, amicably divorced Ginny three years later. She took no notice that her godson, Albus Severus Potter, had turned five recently. 

Harry felt that was the last straw. 

For all that Hermione was an intelligent, brave champion, she was quite blind when it came to matters of the heart. She had buried what little emotion she allowed herself, deep behind high walls that no one could hope to penetrate. Little did she know that her walls were about to be scaled and obliterated by events of a most peculiar nature and a man of a most persistent character.

@@@

“Knock, knock.”

Hermione glanced up from her work. “Harry. What brings you here?” She didn’t wait for an answer and returned to scanning the legal document for any loopholes. 

Consequently, she didn’t see his smile drop. “I was just wondering where you were last weekend.” He entered her office and closed the door.

“Last weekend?” she murmured absentmindedly. Her red-inked quill continued to scratch along the parchment. “I was probably in Romania for the lecture concerning Swedish Short-Snout dragons.”

Harry sat in a chair that was positioned in front of her desk, not that she ever had any visitors that used it. “It was December sixteenth.”

She darted her gaze up and frowned. “Yes, I know. I was the guest lecturer.”

He blew out a pent-up breath. “It was Albus’ birthday.”

Her eyes widened fractionally for a moment, before they closed. When she opened them, she returned to proofing her material. “I’ll send him something to make up for it.”

“That’s not good enough, Hermione.”

She threw her quill in the ink pot and crossed her arms. “He’s what? Four? He won’t know the difference between a plush animated unicorn and a jar of salamander eyes. Don’t tell me it’s not good enough.”

“He just turned five,” Harry ground out, losing his temper. “And he happens to like potions kits, not that you’d know. When’s the last time you actually saw Albus?”

The bottom of her lip was pulled between her teeth, where she began to gnaw on the corner, a sure sign of concentration. “Last Christmas?”

Harry snorted in derision. “Try his third birthday party, and you were late to that.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Like I said, I’ll make it up to him.”

An overwhelming look of sadness suffused Harry’s features. “When?”

“At Christmas.”

“Which is tomorrow.”

She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “I’m supposed to organise the protest against deforestation of the Erkling’s habitat tomorrow.” 

“But, it’s Christmas, Hermione!”

“And the world still revolves, Harry. It doesn’t stop for one day of the year.”

Harry was incredulous. “I can’t believe you.” He stood and leaned over her desk. “No, the world doesn’t stop, not even for a day, I’ll give you that. But Hermione, you need to look at your life, before you have none of it left. At this rate, you’ll be eighty and one of those crazy cat witches that everyone is afraid of.”

She looked affronted. “I happen to like cats, thank you very much!”

“Really? Tell me, what happened to Crookshanks, hmm?”

Her lips pursed until they were nearly bloodless. "He went dotty in his old age, and ran away."

“Seven isn't that old for Kneazles, or even half-Kneazles. Try again.”

She pushed away from her desk and stood. “He was old and senile. Now, if you don't mind, I've got to finish this tonight.”

Harry came around the desk and leaned in until they were practically nose-to-nose. “He ran away to Luna's because you became so caught up in your work, protests and movements that you forgot to feed him for a week. You neglected him.” It was quite possibly that Harry wasn't being fair, but he'd reached his breaking point, which was where his mouth often took over for his brain.

Her face was like stone. “Get out,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself.

“No,” he spat. “Merlin, why can’t you see what’s right in front of you, Hermione? You’re neglecting all of us. And for what? I understand that you want to make a difference, but at what cost? Your soul?”

“You know nothing,” she muttered. 

In that moment, though, Harry thought she sounded an awful lot like Snape. “I know more than you think.” He willed away the tears that prickled his eyes. “Please come to Godric’s Hollow tomorrow for Christmas,” he pleaded, hating the sound of his voice.

She stepped away, grabbed her thick file of documents, and moved to the coatrack that held her travelling cloak. “You know I can’t. The protest is in Germany, near the Black Forest. It’ll take all day just to lay the groundwork for a peaceful demonstration.” After donning the heavy wool coat, she pulled out her hair from underneath her collar. “Maybe Boxing Day. See yourself out.”

Harry watched her leave, and was deafened by the sound of the silence that followed.

@@@

Hermione lived in the South London borough of Southwark, specifically in Dulwich. It was not a magical community, but rather, a sparsely-populated Muggle area that was not commercialised and was considered a conservation zone. Dulwich still boasted nearly all the original buildings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was also known for its waters – they were found to be possessed of purgative qualities, and for some time had been used medicinally. What the Muggles did not know was that ages ago, a lost unicorn had dipped its horn in the babbling stream that led to the village, imbuing the stream with healing properties. Of course, Hermione did know, and it was one of the reasons she chose Dulwich to live in – that, and she wanted to keep an eye open in case another unicorn wandered too close. It would not do to have Muggles touting that they had seen one, which would lead those with an over-inquisitive nature to potentially penetrate the wizarding world. 

She lived in a nineteenth-century house that had been built by Charles Drake, of the Patent Concrete Building Company. It was the only concrete house from that time period in existence in England. It was also considered derelict by the housing council of Southwark, which suited her just fine. The appearance of a run-down, decrepit frame of a manor deterred most anyone from coming near. 

Inside, however, it was quite comfortable after Hermione made massive alterations. It was not lavish by any means; it was even Spartan in some areas. But overall, it was enough that she felt content. No one bothered her. No one called – not that they could; she had never told anyone where she lived, though they had asked on multiple occasions. No one saw the brief Lumos she would cast as she arrived home at night, and no one would see the light extinguish when she went to bed… if she went to bed at all. 

On this particularly windy and wintery night, however, someone did see all of that, and more. And what he saw disappointed him greatly. He had hoped better for Hermione Granger. She was such a talented young witch. Why was she wasting her life away in a dilapidated building, with no friends or loved ones to speak of, and living as though she were in hiding? No, this would not do. This would not do at all.

@@@

Christmas Eve night found Hermione Granger huddled within her threadbare Gryffindor robe, still perusing the two inch-thick proposal to set up a Crumpled-Horn Snorkack sanctuary in Siberia. Though she thought Luna Longbottom dotty on the best of days, Hermione had to give the witch credit for actually finding the heretofore-imaginary creature in the flesh. Of course, now it had to be protected, and the document in her lap would do just that. 

Hermione had grabbed a few slices of bread – toasted, of course, a strong cup of tea, and had settled herself in her comfortable bedroom before a roaring fire. The heat from the tea, the licking flames in the hearth, and the lateness of the hour caused the words on the parchment to float. She was just at the part where the Snorkack – a massive beast on the scale of a rhino – needed the arctic chill in order to live comfortably, when her head drooped and her eyes closed. 

Hermione Granger… 

She did not stir at the sound of her name whispered on the wind.

Hermione… 

A little moan issued from her lips, and she tossed her head against the back of her squishy chair. 

“Miss Granger.”

The voice brought about an immediate response, ingrained as her habit was to its authority. “The square root of sixty-nine is eight point three zero six six –”

“Ahem.”

She sat up and squinted her eyes, trying to focus on the intruder. It didn’t work. Her right hand slipped between the cushions of her chair and wrapped itself around her wand. “I already gave to the London Wildlife Trust yesterday, and you’re trespassing. I suggest you leave, before I summon the authorities.”

“Such a welcome, and from one of my best students. I daresay I should be insulted.”

Her brows drew together in confusion. “Who are you?”

The individual gave her an amused look. “Do you truly not know who I am? Do you doubt your senses?”

She snorted mirthlessly. “After the day I’ve had? Most definitely.” Looking over the imposing figure, she came to the conclusion that the man was probably an escapee from Hanwell Asylum. “I’m not in the habit of chatting up burglars, so you can either leave, or wait for me to –”

“Do you mind?” the man asked, pointing the chair adjacent her own, clearly intending to have a natter. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do mind!”

Paying no heed to her outrage, he sat and pulled out two twigs from his voluminous sleeves. This caused her to raise her wand in his direction, which was slowly lowered when a lengthy skein of rainbow-coloured yarn appeared in his lap. She watched as he studied her exposed bare feet, narrowed his eyes, and then transformed the flimsy twigs into double-pointed needles. The man cast-on a number of stitches, then quickly completed row after beautifully-even row. The yarn flew as he clacked his needles around a heel, until only the toe was left. With a flourish he joined the two sides, then looped the thread through the last stitch, his hands somehow stretching the knitted swatch into two distinct shapes. 

“For you, my dear.” He handed her a pair of thick, rainbow-coloured socks.

Hesitantly, Hermione took the proffered clothing. “Erm, thank you?”

“You’re welcome!” He steepled his abnormally long fingers, staring at her. “Now, if I may address the reason for my visit…”

“You’re not here to pinch the silver? I mean, that would be quite futile, actually. There’s none to be had.” 

“Still unsure of my identity?” He tsk’d and shook his head regretfully. “I suppose my appearance has changed a bit since I was at Hogwarts.”

She examined the stranger more closely, taking note of the embellished robes, the longish neck-length beard, the familiar twinkle in the bright blue eyes.

“Dumbledore!” she gasped. She tilted her head to the side in confusion. “What happened to your beard?” 

“The most amusing thing, really. A certain ginger prankster decided that the afterlife was quite dull and decided to spice things up a bit by setting fire to my beard. Alas, fire does not burn in the hereafter, it merely disintegrates things, and I was not able to save the noble bush.” He stroked his facial hair, as he used to do when he was Headmaster. “This took seven years to grow, and I’m only just now able to braid it like a Viking warrior.” He demonstrated this very feat.

“Brilliant,” she said and smiled wanly. “But, you’re dead… aren’t you?”

“Yes, quite right. That’s why I’m here.”

She arched a lone brow. “You’re here because you’re dead?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He smiled widely, rose from the chair, cleared his throat, and spread out his arms. “You will be visited by three men this night...”

Laughter burst from her chest. “Three men? I mean, I know I don’t get out much, but don’t you think three men at once is a bit much?” 

Dumbledore glared at her. “Spirits. They just happen to be of the male persuasion. You have not lived up to your potential, Miss Granger. I’m here to, hopefully, correct that.”

“I’ll have you know that I’ve accomplished a significant amount in the seven years since leaving Hogwarts!” She stood to match him, toe-to-toe. “The house-elves can now choose to work for minimum wage, centaurs are treated as near-gods, and Cornish pixies now have a protected habitat in Truro. Tell me again how I have not lived up to your expectations, Professor!”

He looked at her in pity. “You have not allowed yourself to love, Hermione. To live a full life.”

“What?” she whispered harshly. “You dare to come in here, my home, and tell me that because I didn’t wish to burden my heart with emotional entanglements, that I’m living a lesser life?” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I won’t be party to your manipulative games, Professor. I know how you treated Harry all those years; what you did to Snape.”

Dumbledore gave her a derisive look. “This is not a home, Miss Granger. This is a hovel that you changed to suit you. Yes, I regret the machinations that placed Severus and Harry in countless danger, but they were necessary, as you well know. The truth of the matter is that I am here on behalf of another, before it’s too late.”

“Who, then?”

“I cannot divulge such information at this time, but perhaps I will once you have seen the light, so to speak.”

“Get out now!” she spat, picking up a pewter candlestick. “I swear, spirit or not, I will find a way to exorcise you from this place.”

“Child, think of the chains you are forging in this life. Chains of loneliness and isolation. You might have died that night, as well, for all the actual living that you’ve done since.”

With a mighty yell, she hefted the heavy pewter at her ghostly visitor. The item went straight through his incorporeal form and landed with a thud on the carpet. Seeing how ineffectual the action was, Hermione pulled her wand to try something different.

“I would advise against casting spells on a ghost,” he warned. “It has a nasty tendency to backfire and cause the spirit to remain bound to the place it was hexed.”

“Argh!” 

“Ronald warned me of your temper,” Dumbledore said offhandedly.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” she ground out vehemently. “Don’t speak of him as if you knew him, like Harry and I did. You don’t have the right!”

“My apologies,” he said gravely. “It was not my intent to cause you pain this night, Hermione.”

Tears threatened to fill her eyes, but she refused to give into them. “I really wish you would leave, Professor. I can’t imagine Elysium being so dull that you would come to visit me on a whim.”

He stepped close to her, the cold chill of his presence freezing her to the bone. “Indeed, it was not a whim. I told you, I am here on someone’s behalf. In fact, I am here on your behalf, as well. I wish to avert a disaster of monumental proportions.”

She scoffed. “Dramatic as ever, Professor.” She returned to her seat and stared pensively into the fire.

“You are too young to be so cynical and bitter, Miss Granger,” he said gently. “Where is the wonder and excitement that infused your very soul the moment you stepped into the wizarding world?”

“It died when Bellatrix Lestrange carved ‘Mudblood’ into my skin, sir,” she answered without inflection, her tone dead. 

“Oh, Hermione,” he lamented quietly. “I am so very sorry that happened.”

She glanced at him once and returned her gaze to the fire. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do it.”

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. He darted his eyes to the clock, noted the time and stroked his beard in agitation. “I do realise that I was not a party to the pain inflicted upon you, Miss Granger. I was empathising with you. Perhaps it is an ability you have lost touch with?”

She winced at his insinuation. “Go away,” she said listlessly. 

“They will still come,” he told her. “The three spirits.”

She waved him off as if he didn’t matter. “Fine, fine. I hope they don’t mind seeing me in my pyjamas.”

He chuckled. “I daresay they might enjoy it.” There was a decidedly mischievous gleam in his eyes. 

“Pervy old gits,” she muttered. She turned to glare at Dumbledore, only to find him gone.

After rising, she made her way to her bedroom door and checked the wards – all still in place, and not a one disturbed. She checked the windows as well, finding the same. The flue was a bit clogged, so there was a thin film of smoke in the room, which dissipated when she waved her wand to disperse it. 

She snorted, chalking up her spectral visitor to fatigues of the day and not having eaten much throughout. Too tired to eat a proper meal, she donned the tartan pyjamas that McGonagall had given her ages ago for a Christmas present. She then promptly fell in bed and fell asleep upon the instant.


	2. Chapter 2

An old coach mantel clock began a pathetic winding chime, indicating that the time was one o’clock in the morning. Then a gear promptly twanged, as if the clock had been wound too tightly, and suddenly, all was quiet.

The fire was low. The curtains around Hermione’s canopied bed were heavy, and were spelled not to move, even if a gusty wind blew about the room. This was of some consequence, because there was a slight ripple along the fabric closest to her head on the left side, as if someone were batting a hand against the barrier. After a few more wavy movements, the curtain stilled, until the whole of the drape was shoved completely to the side, startling the occupant of the bed from her deep slumber.

“No more black pudding! I swear I’ll be good!” Hermione yelled to the empty room as she sat bolt upright.

She blinked wearily and tried to focus her gaze on anything substantial in her bedroom, only finding only the flickering shadows caused by the few dying embers in the grate. A yawn clawed its way out of her mouth before she flopped back down upon her sheets, eyes firmly closed to find more sleep.

“Ah, sleep. ‘Tis death, without the responsibility.”

One of Hermione’s eyes flew open.

There was a familiar chuckle, followed by, “Though I had the patience of a saint, I don’t have that long tonight, Hermione.”

Slowly, she turned to look over her shoulder, her eyes widening at the sight of Remus Lupin standing beside her bed, smiling. “Professor?”

He was as she had known him in life, though much younger. There was no grey in his hair; in fact, it was a soft tawny colour, as it had appeared in youthful photographs she had seen of him. His face bore no scars and he was clean-shaven. He looked positively handsome and whole. There was also an aura about him, a soft, pulsing golden light that seemed to radiate from within. 

“I’m dreaming,” she muttered. She blinked her eyes, shook her head, and burrowed beneath the covers. “You’re dead.”

The duvet was yanked away, inducing a high-pitched squeal when her body was exposed to the cold. She sat up and scooted backwards until the headboard brought her to a halt.

“I may be dead, but I’m more alive than you are at this moment. Now, get up.”

Her trembling hand slid underneath her pillow and grabbed her wand. She then pointed it at her former D.A.D.A. professor. “ _Riddikulus_!”

Nothing happened.

Lupin arched a brow, his expression one of amusement.

She tried again, this time with an intricate swish of her wrist. “ _Depulso_!”

“Are we really going to go through your entire litany of spells and charms before you realise that I’m not a figment of your imagination, and that I mean you no harm?” he asked.

Her chin notched up in defiance. “I’m not in the habit of conversing with spirits.” 

Bright laughter filled the night air. “Merlin, I didn’t want to believe it when Albus told me, but you _do_ sound like Severus!” Lupin glanced at her feet and smiled at the rainbow-coloured socks.

Hermione crossed her arms, her look petulant. “Is there a reason that you’re here, Professor? I mean, shouldn’t you be cavorting with Tonks in the afterlife?”

“We cavort lots.” He gave her a wicked grin and a wink. “But this is serious, Hermione. I’m here to show you some things which you might’ve missed the first time around.”

In spite of herself, she was intrigued. “First time around? You mean I get to go back and correct the past? A person can’t do that… can they? I mean, I was told not to run into myself when I wore the Time-Turner, but if I hadn’t made sure that –”

“Hermione,” he said gently. “We’re not going to change the past.”

The excitement that had begun building inside her, at the possibility of changing the fates of so many of those lost to her, died quite tragically. She tried not to whimper. “Then what are we doing?”

“Take my hand.” Lupin held his out, palm up. 

She looked down at her pyjamas. “Erm, shouldn’t I get dressed?”

He shook his head and smiled. “Won’t be a problem where we’re going.”

Not waiting for her to trust him fully, he grabbed her wrist and pulled. It would have been in vain for Hermione to plead with the deceased wizard tugging her towards the window that it was below freezing outside. After all, she was only clothed in tartan pyjamas and rainbow-coloured socks – attire not suitable for winter travel.

Once he opened the window, she resisted, and sought to withdraw her hand from his. “You do know I abhor heights, right?” It was a toss-up as to whether it was the frigid air or her nerves that had her teeth chattering like mad. 

“Not to worry, I won’t drop you.”

Her eyes widened. “Drop me? I don’t – aaaahhhh!”

Her screams were muffled by the rush of the wind as Lupin sped them past hill and dale, over swiftly-running waters and through thick forests. In a fraction of a second, they were standing in front of a modest home in a Muggle area of London, the street dark, a light shining from an upper window.

“My childhood home,” Hermione whispered. She covered her mouth to stifle a sob. 

Lupin smiled softly. “Does it still look the same as it did?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. 

“Remember, anything we see is in the past. They can’t see or hear us.”

Not waiting on her companion, she ran to the door to open it, only to find that her hand went straight through the door… followed by rest of her body. It was disconcerting, to say the least. 

Lupin joined her in the entryway to the sitting room, both watching the scene unfolding before their eyes. It was Christmas, about nineteen eighty-four, if she guessed correctly. Her five-year-old self was playing with a junior chemistry set that her parents had given her, and her smile was wide.

 

_“Would you like a pull, love?” her father asked, holding a hefty Christmas cracker in his hand._

_“No, I’m busy,” her five-year-old self answered, clearly lost in the fascination of her gift._

 

“Sounds like you were well on your way to being the brightest witch already,” Lupin murmured to her. 

“I was an only child,” she explained. “Mum and dad had me late in life. I learned to be self-sufficient at an early age.”

“Is that so? Let’s see.” Lupin snapped his fingers and the Christmas scene moved ahead one year, showing much the same events. 

This time, there was a book about Origami sitting on her six-year-old lap and a sheet of plum-coloured rice paper in her hand.

 

_“You haven’t played with your doll, Hermione,” her mother pointed out._

_Her child-self glanced at the life-like baby doll, gave it a once over, then returned her attention to folding the paper just right so it wouldn’t crease in the wrong spot. “I’ll play with it later.”_

 

Another snap of Lupin’s fingers, and the scene continued to flash-forward: two, three, four, then five years… all with the same result – Hermione obsessed over one thing or another, ignoring her parents, and isolating herself. When he turned to look at her, she was distinctly uncomfortable.

“I was dedicated to my education,” she said defensively.

“Apparently.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “Are we done here?”

He nodded and hugged her to him, as if to Apparate, and they were flying once more, this time over mountains and valleys, over lochs and villages, until they arrived at the once place neither of them would ever forget: Hogwarts. They came to a soft landing right on the front steps of the great school.

“’Allo, Remus!”

Hermione stiffened momentarily when Sir Nicholas floated by, nodding his head at Lupin. “I thought you said we couldn’t be seen?” she said.

“Sir Nicholas and the rest of the ghosts are trans-dimensional – they see the past, present, and future. They’ll see me, but not you. You’re still alive.”

“Oh. When are we?”

Her question was answered as she beheld Harry and Ron pacing in front of the entrance to the Great Hall. With a jolt, she recognised the scene: the night of the Yule Ball celebrating the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Both boys were in their dress robes. Ron’s were rather pathetic, but Harry… Merlin, he looked so handsome. They were quietly arguing with their respective dates for the Ball, but were soon hushed as Professor McGonagall bustled up and told Harry and Parvati to go inside with the other champions. Hermione followed them inside, curious as to how the Yule Ball looked to her adult eyes.

“Pay attention to Harry,” Lupin whispered.

She frowned and shrugged, unsure as to why he wanted to her to do such an odd thing, but acquiescing nonetheless. Stepping to her right, she watched as Harry glanced at all the Tri-Wizard champions and their dates… until he came to Krum and Hermione. What she observed stunned her.

Harry’s jaw had dropped, his eyes intent on Hermione’s periwinkle-blue dress and the curves it hid. His gaze roamed higher, lingering on her chest, ending with raised brows at how sleek and smooth her hair was styled. His date also noticed his stare; Parvati was sending Harry a look that could freeze an _Aguamenti_ charm in its tracks. Even when they began dancing, Harry’s focus was constantly on Hermione as they twirled about the hall, much to the disgust of Parvati and Krum, who had sussed out that Potter had been studying the girl in his arms. As usual, Ron was oblivious.

And that thought brought her up short: Ron was oblivious. Harry was not. 

She cleared her throat, her face blushing hotly. “Harry always watched people,” she said, by way of explanation. 

“Mmmh,” Lupin mused. “I agree, but shall we look at a different time and compare notes?”

He snapped his fingers and they were immediately transported to a time that she wished she could forget. Her teen-aged self rushed by, tugging and pulling at the red cocktail dress she had worn to Slughorn’s Christmas party. At the time, she had thought the dress flashy and revealing, and she had selected it for no other reason than to make Ron jealous. But all it had done was induce Cormac to have a case of wandering hands. 

 

_“What happened to you?” Harry asked, his look disapproving._

_“I’ve just escaped – erm, I mean, I’ve just left Cormac under the mistletoe.” Hermione huffed a breath to move a wayward strand of hair from her eyes._

_Harry glared. “Serves you right for coming with him,” he told her harshly._

 

The past images continued to argue, but this time, standing apart from the scene, Hermione’s eyes were riveted to Harry’s mannerisms and the way he held himself in her presence. Her best friend, the man she’d known for fourteen years, looked quite upset at her choice of date, even a little jealous. Then she recalled the conversation that she’d had with Harry in the library before the party.

 

_“Have you decided who you’re taking to Slughorn’s party?”_

_She had shelved several books and turned to Harry. “Yes. It was a rather spur-of-the-moment thing, really.”_

_His eyes were downcast. “Oh. I had hoped we could go together.”_

_Pausing, Hermione frowned. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She gave a disgusted noise and continued sorting tomes into their appropriate sections._

_Harry watched her walk off. “I thought of it ages ago,” he whispered to her retreating form._

 

“Seems Harry did more than just observe,” Lupin said, startling her from her memory.

Her cheeks flamed brilliantly, whereas before, they were merely tinted with pink. “It was a stressful year. None of us were thinking clearly.”

Lupin pulled her away from the scenes of past events to stand in a deserted corridor. “Is that so? Well, let’s try something completely different, shall we? A little more concrete evidence.”

The floor of the hall fell away, eliciting a scream from Hermione. Lupin’s hand grabbed her arm, however, and whisked them through the darkness until they landed in a forest near a stream, a familiar-looking tent sitting at the edge of the treeline. 

“The Forest of Dean,” she rasped. 

“You were on the run for nearly a year, right?”

She nodded as she made her way to the slightly opened tent flap. “It was so bitterly cold.”

They materialised inside to behold Harry and Hermione; one slumped in a chair, the other sitting on a camp bed. Both had a morose look upon their faces. Harry was particularly fidgety, enough so that he stood and made his way over to Hermione, tugging her to her feet to embrace her. 

Even remembering the scene, Hermione was taken aback at Harry’s actions. Holding her in his arms, they swayed slowly to unheard music, taking comfort and warmth in each other. After several moments, Harry pulled back, cupped her cheek, and pressed his lips to hers. 

A gasp escaped the witch watching the episode. She had forgotten that sweet and tender token of affection. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, remembering how she had felt at the time. “He tasted like spearmint,” she mused aloud, still fixated on the image the couple from the past presented. 

“Mmmh. And when you were in Professor Slughorn’s class, identifying potions, what did Amortentia smell like to you?” 

“Freshly-mown grass and spearmint.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I thought…”

“It was Ron?” Lupin patted her shoulder. “Should I show you Godric’s Hollow on Christmas Eve? Where you and Harry held each other so close and wept your misery over his parent’s grave?”

“No more,” she murmured. She wiped the tears fringing her lashes away with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. “I want to go home.”

No sooner had she uttered the last word than she was standing amongst all the trappings of her current life – her canopied bed, the low fire in the grate, the rumpled bedsheets. She turned to say goodbye to Lupin, but he had disappeared, just as surely as the past images had. 

Alone, cold, and feeling quite sorry for herself, Hermione slipped beneath the covers to find what little sleep she could, hoping that the ache in the region of her chest, where her heart lay, was only indigestion.


	3. Chapter 3

After awakening in the middle of a prodigiously loud snore, Hermione sat up and peered around her room, bleary-eyed. She had left the bed curtains open before falling into a deep slumber, so she was able to gaze at the now banked fire and the crazed mantel clock. With the drapes drawn back, a chill seeped closer to her shivering and huddled form, and she pulled the duvet tighter around her shaking limbs.

The timepiece twanged and twinged, indicating that it was a quarter past two. With a sharp look to the left and then to the right, Hermione determined there was nothing nefarious afoot. Yet. She was usually prepared for anything. However, she was not by any means prepared for nothing, as there had been no clang of a chime at two. In fact, the clock had ceased to monitor the passage of time, for its counted measure had stopped. 

And that’s when she heard it, or rather, felt it: the vibration that is usually associated with the hum of a loud and powerful engine. It was accompanied with short bursts of what could only be swearing. As the din approached a level that threatened to make a person deaf, Hermione did the unthinkable.

She hid underneath her covers.

Consequently, she did not see the motorbike – with sidecar – crash through her bedroom window and come to a screeching halt right beside her bed. The engine idled for a brief moment before it was abruptly silenced. 

_“There once was a terrible swot.  
Whose legs were incredibly hot.   
Just give her a book,   
And a come-hither look.   
And she'd give you as good as she got!”_

Hermione peeked over the edge of the duvet, her eyes widening as she beheld…

“Sirius Black, at your service, good witch!”

Astride the Muggle motorbike, Sirius was clad in a purple silk shirt, black leather trousers, dragon hide boots, and a long leather duster that swirled as he dismounted from the seat. His hair was just as wavy and shaggy as it had been in life, though his face lacked the carved edges he’d earned in Azkaban. She imagined that he had looked this very way when he was newly quit of Hogwarts. 

“Come give us a squeeze, poppet!” He held his arms open wide, ready for a hug.

She gave him a look of disdain, one eyebrow arched, her upper lip curled into a sneer.

“Holy fuck! Moony was right. Just like Snivellus. I’ll be damned.” Sirius let his arms drop, disappointment clear.

The duvet dropped from her hands and she sat up a little straighter. “You sure like to gossip in the Afterlife. It sounds like a veritable game of Telephone.”

Sirius scratched his head, confused. “Don’t know how to use a telly-fone, love. But you know Dumbledore, can’t keep his big –”

“No! He can’t.” 

Since Hermione had made no move to extricate herself from her bed, Sirius decided to do it for her. Without warning, he appeared at her bedside, grabbed her about the waist – ignoring her squeals of outrage – and hauled her from beneath the covers and plopped her in the sidecar. Completely incensed, she thought to scramble out of the seat, but the moment her arse hit the leather, she was charmed in place. “Let me out!”

Sirius strode around to his side of the bike and climbed on, tapping his wand to the petrol tank. “Sorry, love. No can do. You’ll have to know me better than Moony, if this is to work.”

She could barely hear him above the rumble of the motor. “What?”

“Know me better, woman!” he shouted, and revved the machine. “Ready?” Not waiting for an answer, he gunned the engine, swerved and headed straight for the window.

Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs as they exited her home and dipped low, as if the motorbike were failing to fly. Sirius cackled madly as he pressed a button. Quite suddenly, the bike levelled out and started to ascend into the clouds that obscured a thin sliver of moon. 

Once they began cruising at a certain altitude, and Hermione had stopped her shouts of panic, Sirius leaned over and said, “Sorry I’m late. I was supposed to be there at two, but I ran out of petrol.”

The speedy rise and fall of her chest prevented her from saying much of anything, for fear of hyperventilating.

He waggled his eyebrows at her. 

_“I once knew a Gryffindor bird.  
The others thought she was a nerd.   
But I used my lips,   
And hands on her hips.   
And found out it's cock she preferred.”_

Her jaw dropped in horror. She made to slap his face, or hit anything on him that she could reach at her awkward angle, but her hand floated right through him, earning a tremendous laugh from Sirius.

“Wish I was still around, eh?” He gave a wink and released the throttle, causing the bike to lurch forward into a steep descent.

Hermione swallowed several times to keep her stomach from being expelled out her mouth. She didn’t know what kind of life-lesson all this flying was supposed to teach her that she didn’t already know. And couldn’t the Afterlife provide better examples of humanity than this piece of…

_“There once was a girl called Hermione.  
Whose breasts were so luscious, not tiny.   
She always was right,   
And when she was tight,   
She'd fuck you ‘til your prick was shiny.”_

She groaned and buried her flaming face in her hands. Really. Sirius Black as a shining example of how to live a full life? Only if a person wanted a sexually-transmitted disease.

Since her eyes were covered by her fingers, she didn’t see them land in Muggle London, but she definitely felt it. The streets were cobbled, and Hermione felt _every, single_ bump and rut that Sirius hit. He finally came to a stop in front of the red phone booth that housed the Visitor’s Entrance to the Ministry.

“Come on, then.” He shut off the engine and dismounted, waiting on her.

Slowly, she lifted her bum off the seat, and finding that she could finally move, rose completely and got out of the sidecar. She tried to look ten times more dignified than she actually felt, knowing that her hair was puffed out and her cheeks were windburnt.

“I thought we would be incorporeal,” she said, frowning when he held open the door of the phone booth.

“We are, love.” He leaned into her and whispered, “But I’ve always fancied a proper trip into the Ministry.”

She rolled eyes. “Being dragged in by the Aurors wasn’t proper enough for you?” she said callously.

His sneer matched the one she’d given him earlier. 

_“Hermione thought she had a plan.  
To get any boy that she can.   
She started so easily,   
Dating a Weasley,   
When she should have been fucking a man.”_

“You’re a pig.”

“Oink, oink. Now get in the bloody booth.”

Though she would never admit it to the likes of Sirius Black, Hermione was hurt by his insinuation. Yes, she had started dating – if that’s what it could be called, whilst they were on the run – Ron, thinking that she had found her true love. And to have the purest pure-blood next to a Malfoy tell her that she should’ve been shagging a ‘real man’ cut her to the quick.

Crammed together in the booth, she picked up the receiver and dialled the number to lower the elevator, knowing it by heart. As the platform descended, Hermione shifted as far away as possible from the rude wizard. The moment they came to a halt and stepped off the platform, she noticed the hustle and bustle of Ministry employees running to and fro, scurrying to finish their duties before the Christmas holidays started. She turned to her dubious companion and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Is there some epiphany I’m supposed to have while watching people during pre-holiday rush?”

But he wasn’t paying attention to her. Instead, Sirius was scanning the crowd, as if looking for someone in particular. After several moments, he smiled widely. “There!” He pointed to a fast-moving head full of ginger hair. 

Hermione’s gaze turned to follow Arthur Weasley as he met up with his son, Percy.

Sirius grabbed Hermione’s arm and hauled her over to where the two men stood in deep conversation. “Pay attention.”

She wrangled her arm back. “Don’t man-handle me!”

Saying nothing, and ignoring her heated glare, he grasped her chin and faced it forward.

 

“Did you speak with Hermione about Christmas dinner?” Arthur asked Percy.

Percy shook his head. “I couldn’t.”

“Was she not in? That’s not like her.”

“No,” Percy said with a sneer. “You don’t understand. I couldn’t see her, because I didn’t have an appointment.”

Arthur frowned. “But, it’s just to ask her to Christmas dinner. I hadn’t realised you needed a set amount of time to pop in and out, to ask a question.”

“You do if it concerns Hermione Granger,” Percy said with a little disdain. “Do you know, if you try to enter her office without one, you’ll be cursed with a _Furnunculus_ hex for three days? And don’t ask me how I know. I just do.” 

“How does Harry get by, then?”

“Harry’s Head Auror, plus he knows how Hermione’s magic works. He can dismantle any spells or curses she casts in a matter of seconds.” 

 

“That’s my boy!” Sirius squealed quietly.

“I like to make the most of my time. I don’t need interruptions,” she said in a heated manner.

Sirius snorted. “You need a series of interruptions.”

Instead of answering, Hermione returned to the two Weasleys in conversation.

 

“Are you sure you can’t speak with her at some point today? Harry will be sorely disappointed if she doesn’t come.”

Percy glanced at his watch and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. I’ll try to send an air mail, and hope it doesn’t go up in flames.” He patted his father’s arm and strode off in another direction.

Arthur remained where he was with a pensive look on his face. “I don’t know who would be more disappointed if she doesn’t show: Albus or Harry,” he murmured to himself. Shaking his head, he turned and followed his son to the elevators.

 

Hermione tucked a frizzed strand of hair behind her ear. “I never got an air message from Percy.”

“He didn’t send one.”

She had a stricken look on her face. “Why not?”

Sirius leaned down and caught her gaze. “Maybe he didn’t think you’d actually consider the request. You are, after all, so very busy with everything but your own life.”

“But I always answer all my messages,” she whispered. 

“That may be, but most of them are about work, aren’t they? Work may be the greatest thing in the world to you, but you should always leave some of it for tomorrow. If you don’t, you might as well check in to St Mungo’s.”

“If I left some things for the next day, I’d be behind schedule from then on out.”

He shrugged. “As you wish, love. But take this piece of advice to heart: just because your office doesn’t have the bars on the windows, the chill from the sea air, or the sadistic guards, doesn’t mean it isn’t a prison. I lived in an eight-by-ten cell for nigh on twelve years; the only difference between your office and my cell is the furnishings.”

“Isn’t that just a bit dramatic? Oh, wait… I forgot who I was talking to.”

 _“There once was a young Gryffindor miss,  
Who fell for a fellow like this.   
She swore she was good,   
Like all Gryffindors should,   
But she got so much more than a kiss.”_

He promptly gave her a two-fingered salute.

She narrowed her eyes. “Point proven.”

He looked like he wanted to strangle her as his fists clenched and unclenched. “Look, princess, I’m doing this as a favour to someone I love, not because I care that your life is on the fast-track to Spinsterville.” He smirked at her splutter of indignation. “So let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

Not giving her a chance to refute him, Sirius yanked them both back to street level, so they could travel to their next destination. Neither spoke as the motorbike ascended into the clouds once more, and each ignored the disgruntled noises the other made.

When they arrived in Godric’s Hollow, Hermione’s already-shot nerves went completely haywire. She could only imagine what Sirius wanted to show her here, and she knew it would make her chest ache. As if it were a foregone conclusion, she rubbed the area just above her left breast, grimacing.

She would refuse to get out of the sidecar, that’s all there was to it. 

“Not going to work,” Sirius warned, and plucked her from the seat, hauling her over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” She pounded on his back and made to kick him in the bollocks.

He gave her a sharp slap on her arse, which effectively shut her up. “Behave like a lady, and we’ll get along.”

“Oh, like you’re the perfect gentleman,” she seethed. 

They moved through the front door of Harry’s house and made their way to the room Sirius wanted, where he then plopped her on the floor, smirking at her. “Now, listen up, poppet. What you see and hear in this place is very important and like nothing else this evening.”

Hermione was set to argue. That was, until she heard the pitter-patter of feet. Sirius had deposited her in the sitting room; at least, she thought it was, from the last time she’d been in the house. Guilt finally began to niggle at her conscience. When was the last time she’d truly visited with Harry? With Albus? With anyone?

 

“Dad?”

Hermione glanced over at the voice and was stunned. There stood an adorable miniature of Harry, complete with messy black hair, green eyes and a dimple on his left cheek. He had a hopeful look on his face as he called out to his father.

“I’m in here, Albus,” Harry called, from off to Hermione’s right. 

She turned and her breath caught in her throat. Merlin, he was devastatingly handsome in his dress robes. He’d changed his glasses several years ago, and now wore rectangular frames, which suited his thinner face better than the round ones of his youth ever did. 

Slowly, she moved from where Sirius had dropped her. And it was a good thing that she had; Harry, moving from room to room, walked straight through her. _That_ had a profound effect on her. Though she hated the thought of such a clichéd sentiment, she really did feel like he had just moved through her soul. 

 

“Is Aunt Hermione going to be at Grandmum’s?”

Harry clutched at a piece of parchment in his hand. “I don’t think so.”

The fragile bubble of hope in Albus’ eyes burst with the news. “Oh. But, she has to come for Christmas. I mean, I know she missed my birthday, and that what she does is very important for our world so it keeps her busy, but…”

“I’m sorry, son,” Harry rasped, placing his hand on his boy’s head to tousle the hair. The crumpled bit of parchment fell to the floor.

 

Hermione spied her own hand-writing on the missive. _Sorry… taking international Portkey tonight, won’t be back for two days. I will visit then._

And that’s when it hit her: she had never given him a set date as to when they would visit. In fact, if she recalled correctly, she hadn’t ever given Harry a specific date to meet, on any occasion. She had just happened to bump into him socially. 

Tears welled in her eyes. This is what had become of her friendship with this caring, loyal man? That it had been degraded to nothing more than a series of accidental meetings that held no substance? Fourteen years of being in each other’s pockets was worth more than this. Worth more than the scant moments of time she now grudgingly spared the man standing before her. She hadn’t truly understood what she had done. But she was beginning to. She hiccoughed a sob and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Sirius made his way over and sat next to her, watching Harry interact with his son. 

“Hermione was blind as a bat,   
When looking at men where she's at.   
She picked up young Ron,   
That's where she went wrong,   
When Harry's the one she should be fucking outrageously because I can't be arsed rhyming that and why _aren’t_ you fucking him, sweetheart?”

“Excuse me?” She didn’t have the energy to sound affronted. Her soul and heart were raw from the night’s events, and she had the tiniest inkling that she might deserve all the pain she was experiencing right now.

“I know I didn’t stutter. Why aren’t you with Harry? The man clearly loves you.”

She shrugged, unsure of any kind of answer. To be honest, she just didn’t know. 

 

“But Dad,” Albus implored, with watery green eyes, “I asked Santa for Aunt Hermione to spend time with us. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t ask for anything else. If I don’t get to spend Christmas with her, then I won’t get anything at all.”

Hermione inhaled sharply, her tears overflowing at this child’s innocent wish - to have her as a part of their lives, even if just for one day, at the expense of all his other wishes for Christmas. 

Harry cleared his throat, but Hermione could tell he was just as choked up as she was. “I have it on good authority that there will be presents under the tree tomorrow morning. Just for you.”

The boy looked unconvinced. “But not the one I want,” he whispered.

Harry cupped Albus’ cheek. “I’ll tell you a secret. I wished for the same thing, too. If Aunt Hermione doesn’t come for Christmas, then neither of us will get our most-wished-for present.”

“Maybe if we both wish hard enough, she’ll be waiting for us under the Christmas tree in the morning,” the small boy suggested with renewed hope shining in his eyes.

A whimper escaped from Hermione and she had to look away. 

Harry pursed his lips, sniffed, and tugged his son into a tight embrace. “Maybe,” Harry said, his voice thick. He then pressed a kiss to his child’s temple. “Time to go.”

 

Hermione watched as her best friend and his son used the Floo to leave for the Weasley Burrow. The now-empty house where she stood was as hollow and dark as her heart. 

“I didn’t write that note,” she murmured. She looked over at Sirius, who had stood and was studying the framed pictures lining the tables and shelves. “It’s my handwriting, but I haven’t written that.”

“Mmmh,” he answered noncommittally. “Look here, Hermione.” 

She joined him at the side table, which held an abundance of photos, some magical, some Muggle. There were a couple of Harry’s parents, and three of Ron, Harry and herself. There was even one of Professor Snape! How on earth Harry had come across it, she had no idea. 

But what took her breath away were the other images within frames – all of them of just Hermione. One of her in her Yule Ball gown. One of her, hair in bedraggled ponytail, which had to have been taken during their year on the run. Where had Harry found a camera and snapped her unawares? There was another on their last day at Hogwarts. The rest were pencil sketches, drawings, from momentous occasions in her life: her Order of Merlin award ceremony, her first Ministry position, the day the House-elf Emancipation Act came into being, and so on. 

“Did you know Harry was a crack artist?” Sirius asked, amused. He picked up a wizarding photo that held a picture of Harry on the day Albus was born. Sirius turned the frame around and tapped Hermione on the shoulder. “Notice anything odd here?”

She tore her gaze from the myriad of portraits. After looking over the snapshot, she frowned. “Where’s Ginny?”

“He didn’t want her in the picture, so he spelled that half of the photo to disappear.”

“But that’s Albus’ mother!”

Sirius replaced the frame on the table. “Harry wishes you were the one in the photo.” At her exasperated look, he rolled his eyes. “Ginny knew, from the beginning.”

“Knew what?”

“Brightest witch of her age, my arse,” he muttered. He studied her and shook his head. “You truly don’t see what kind of impact you have on my godson.”

She looked away. “I’m his friend, that’s all.”

“Keep telling yourself that, love.” 

She was too tired to decipher his cryptic nonsense. “If you’re not going to just tell me, then take me home.”

Sirius glanced at Harry’s grandfather clock. “Shit!” He quickly grabbed Hermione and ran out the front door, dumping her in the sidecar, and mounting his bike. “Hold on!”

“To what?” 

Her shouts once again filled the winter night as they pitched forward with blazing speed. The trip back to her house was decidedly faster than the journey to the Ministry and Godric’s Hollow, and she was soon unceremoniously spilled onto the floor of her bedroom.

“That bloody hurt,” she groused, rubbing her side. “I hope whoever gets you for a guardian angel has more than nine lives.”

Instead of a nasty retort, Sirius grinned wickedly. 

_“’Mione said, ‘Ron, I love you.’  
And both of them thought it was true.   
But, hands twixt her thighs,   
It's ‘Harry!’ she cries.   
Oh ‘Mione, what will you do?”_

He gave a long and gracious bow before disappearing with his motorbike.

“Obnoxious prat!” she yelled after him. She threw a pillow at the window for good measure. 

Her back against the bedpost and her knees raised, Hermione sat on the floor and stared into nothing for a long while, thinking. When her eyes began to water, she darted her gaze to the fire, where there was only a stray ember or two making their last blaze of glory. 

That’s when she noticed the slight haze hanging about the room. It was low to the ground, like morning fog that is soon burned off with the sun’s first warmth. But in one corner, nearest the door, she beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded. A scream welled in her throat when the figure slowly emerged from the shadows, coming straight towards her.


	4. Chapter 4

The Phantom slowly approached, heavy boots thudding on the floorboards with each step. It was shrouded in deep black garments, which concealed its head, its face and its form. The very air through which the spirit moved seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. The figure was tall and stately when it came to stand before her, and as Hermione cowered on the floor at the foot of her bed, she was filled with a solemn dread.

“Get up, you silly girl.”

She stopped shaking and peered intently into the shadows of the cowl covering the figure’s face. 

“Although any amount of time spent in Black’s presence is enough to want to hex your ears off, I know you are not hearing impaired, Miss Granger. Get up.”

Oh, dear Zeus. She knew that voice. In fact, she had a very visceral reaction to the dark, steel-edged tone. Slowly, she rose to stand on unsteady legs to face the one man for whom she had extremely conflicting emotions.

“Merlin’s balls! What have they dressed you in?” He pulled back the cowl to reveal a disgusted sneer.

Severus Snape. 

She crossed her arms over her chest in a protective manner. “If you must know, the pyjamas were a gift from Professor McGonagall, and the socks were –”

“Dumbledore,” Snape drawled. He then did something that surprised Hermione greatly. He lifted his trouser leg to reveal a calf covered in similar rainbow-coloured fabric. 

Unable to help herself, she snorted with laughter. This earned her a scathing glare from the ghostly visage of her former professor. He let the trouser leg drop and assumed a superior look. 

“I have come at the behest of –”

“– someone you love,” she finished for him with a careless wave of her hand. “And let me see if I get this right, hmm? First Dumbledore visits me and says three men will be here tonight… and gives me socks. I try to get some sleep, thinking I’m going to be accosted in my bed at some unknown hour of the night, but instead, I get Professor Lupin dragging me all over London and Scotland to show me things which I had wanted to leave buried in my bruised psyche. Next, I’m taken – via a menacing death-trap of a vehicle – to the Ministry and then to Harry’s house, to show me what a neglectful, straight-on-the-road-to-Spinsterville, pedantic swot of a harridan I am. No, no, wait… I’m almost through here. After I feel like the backend of a Hippogriff for letting Harry and Albus down, I’m now stuck with the worst professor to ever teach at Hogwarts. I’m betting you’re here to show me the future, and if that’s the case, then I am stuck in some Dickensian hell that I couldn’t even conjure on my wildest of drinking binges.”

“I hadn’t realised you’d taken up drinking,” Snape said with a snort. 

“After tonight? I’m seriously considering it.”

“Are you quite through?” 

“If I say no, will you go away, under the assumption that I’ve learned my lesson?”

He arched a lone brow. “I would like nothing better than to retreat back to my peace and comfort instead of listening to you blathering on, Miss Granger, but as I was about to say before you so rudely interrupted me, I am here at the behest of someone I care for. So, no, I will not assume you have learned anything of the sort.”

“I guess it would be the height of presumption for me to ask who this person might be, and why they are, all of a sudden, so worried about my welfare?”

“It would.”

She sighed heavily. “Fine. Am I supposed to say I fear you most of any spectre I have seen thus far tonight?”

“Do you?” Snape had a thoroughly wicked gleam in his eyes that unsettled her. 

Hermione paused for a moment before answering, giving the question some thought. “I used to fear the power that you held over us, but that’s long gone. Maybe I should fear what you’re going to show me.”

Snape gave her speculative look. “Perhaps the know-it-all has gained some wisdom, to equal all that she has learned from books.”

Red tinged her cheeks from embarrassment. “I’ve found they don’t always go hand-in-hand as I had once thought,” she admitted softly. 

“Yes,” Snape said in exasperation. “Well, if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, may we continue with this exercise in foolishness?”

Affronted, she snapped, “Foolishness? If it’s nothing but foolishness to you, why bother?”

“Because, for once in my life, I want you to prove me wrong, Miss Granger,” he growled. “Prove to me that you understand and accept the fact that you are not always right. That you do not need to fix the entire world. Prove to me that you can see beyond your self-righteous crusades for justice, which are nothing more than thinly-veiled attempts at boosting your self-esteem, and concentrate on changing the things that you are more than capable of doing.”

Her eyes narrowed in anger at the fact that Snape was more than a little right. “I seem to recall the Ghost of Christmas Future in the book was silent. How is it you have free rein to speak your mind?”

“It was the one condition I insisted on if I was to play out this farce.” He spread wide his voluminous cloak, as if he were a great bat about to take flight. “Now, are you ready?”

She fixed him with a dubious look. “You have a penchant for resembling a certain Lord of the Undead, you realise.” She swallowed reflexively, unsure of what she should do. “How are we travelling?”

He rolled his eyes. “Come here.” 

Steeling her nerves against her rampant imagination of what she might see tonight, she stepped up to Snape and allowed him to enfold her in his arms. She closed her eyes and buried her face in his chest as the floor beneath their feet disappeared. 

It wasn’t like travelling with Lupin, or heaven forbid, Sirius. There was no motion to speak of, other than a subtle shift, as if her stomach were rising into her chest from a sudden plummet. Snape’s arms did not release her until the sensation ceased. Then, she stepped away and found herself in the kitchen of the Burrow, where it seemed most of the Weasleys and their extended family had gathered.

 

“Harry, dear, you should eat,” Molly gently chided her adopted child. 

He gave her a wan smile, his face reflecting a deep exhaustion. “Sorry, Molly. Guess I’m just not that hungry.” Harry glanced over at Albus, who sat next to one of Bill’s children. Albus’ eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, but he ate in silence.

“Did Hermione come by this morning?” George asked.

Tears welled in Albus’ eyes and Harry thinned his lips. “She’s in Germany at the moment,” was all he said. 

“But it’s Christmas!” Ginny spluttered. “She should really know better.”

“You know once Hermione gets it into her mind to do something, she’s like a magpie with a shiny object. This needed done, and she’s the one to do it, end of story.”

“Has she ever taken a holiday?” asked Dean Thomas, Ginny’s new husband. 

“No,” Harry, Ginny and Percy said in unison.

There was a sniffle from Albus. Harry was about to console his son when a voice from the hearth in the other room called out to him. 

“Potter? Are you here?”

Harry rose from his seat and found Kingsley Shacklebolt’s face floating in the fire. “What’s the matter?”

“I need to see you immediately!”

Harry stepped back and allowed Kingsley to come through the Floo. “What’s so urgent?”

Shacklebolt glanced at the gathered Weasleys, his face grim. “It would be better if we spoke in private.”

Harry nodded and cast _Muffliato_. “It’s safe to talk now. What’s happened?”

After much hesitation, Shacklebolt whispered, “There’s been an incident.” 

“Out with it, Minister,” Harry growled. 

“We need you to come to Germany.”

Harry paled significantly, his hands shaking. “Hermione?”

“Harry, please. I refuse to say more at this time. Will you come?” The younger wizard swayed a bit before Shacklebolt grasped his arm to hold him upright. “Steady on, man.” 

 

Throughout the whole scene, Hermione had been silent, but she spoke up now. “What’s happened in Germany?” she asked Snape.

“Isn’t that where you are organising a protest over the deforestation of the Erkling’s habitat?”

“Yes, but I don’t see that –”

“How many Erklings are there in the world, Miss Granger? A handful at most, which is more than enough. They’re dangerous, Dark creatures. Yet, you wish to _save_ them.”

“Everyone and everything deserves an equal opportunity to live,” she argued. 

“Do they?” Snape’s lip curled into his familiar sneer as he opened his arms wide again. “Come along and find out.”

Though she was reluctant to embrace him again, Hermione quickly complied in order to reach their destination. She felt the same gut-wrenching tug and shift, and when they stopped, she stood in a sparse field on the edge of a dark wooded area. 

Off in the distance, she could see Harry standing near a copse of trees. Not waiting on Snape, she ran to his side, halting suddenly at the scene before her.

 

Harry was staring at the yellow tarp on the ground. His face was devoid of any expression, his eyes dull and lifeless. Several men had assembled nearby, in uniforms denoting that they worked for the German Ministry for Magic.

“Lift it up,” Harry rasped.

The men looked at each other uncertainly. One soul, braver than the rest, bent low and removed the covering. After he had done so, he and the other wizards turned away and retched. 

Harry did not move. His eyes, slowly filling with tears, searched the carnage on the ground. 

 

Hermione dared to glance over Harry’s shoulder and nearly joined the officials in being sick. She recognised the navy-blue cloak Harry had given her for her birthday one year, mangled and twisted around what looked like an arm. There were slash marks in the fabric, marks that looked very much like they were caused by claws, or sharp teeth. And that was all she could really see. The rest of what could mildly be called butchery at the feet of her best friend was indiscernible.

 

Cautiously, Harry lowered himself to study the remains. He tapped his right hand with his wand, and then used his fingers to sift through a particularly gory mess until he grasped something and pulled it away. Rising, he held up a long, bloody clump of hair. He ran his wand up and down the length of the hair, murmuring spells. When one of the spells caused the tresses to burn bright green, Harry inhaled sharply. He promptly dropped the sizzling item, looked over at the German Ministry team, and nodded. They immediately started speaking in their native tongue and fanned out to continue searching. 

“Why?” Harry whispered with a sob. He turned and started walking away.

 

 

Hermione ran to catch up with him, but Snape grabbed her arm to prevent her from following him. “Let me go!”

“Not yet!” Snape snarled. “And not here. Come.”

“No! Not until you tell me what Harry was looking at!”

“Don’t be dense, girl.”

“I’m not. Tell me!”

“No.”

“Then I’m going after Harry.” She made to trounce off, but came to an abrupt halt a few feet from Snape due to a barrier. Her fists pounded on the invisible shield. “Let me go!”

“You’re not in control here, Miss Granger. I am.” Snape’s voice was cold. 

Panic was inching its way up her spine. “You’re not, either. You’re just at the mercy of some nameless god or person who wants you here to make my life miserable.” She whirled to face him. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“To see,” Snape said, as if that were the answer all along. 

“That’s bollocks, Snape, and you know it!” She pounded again on the barrier. “I want to see Harry!”

Snape leaned down until he was nose-to-nose with her, his teeth clenched, his voice low. “But you didn’t want that yesterday, did you? Why is today any different? You’ve ignored him for so long, why must you see him at this particular moment?” He drew back and gave her a disgusted look. “Only now, at the end, do you begin to understand what you have done.”

A sob escaped from Hermione and she clapped her hands over her mouth. The anger she had felt earlier at Snape’s brutal honesty turned now to self-loathing for what she had become: withdrawn, obsessed, bitter and lonely. She had to admit, if only to herself, that Snape had every right to question why she wanted to see Harry now. Never, in the past seven years, had she made any kind of overture to see her best friend that didn’t involve some Ministry function. 

“Are you ready to go?”

Tears tracked their way down her cheeks as she nodded. Once more, and she hoped for the last time, she was enfolded within the heady warmth of Snape’s robes and transported. 

This time when Snape let go of her, she was back in Godric’s Hollow, in Harry’s house. The wizard was seated at the dining room table, a tumbler full of Firewhisky within reach. 

 

Harry did not blink for the longest time. He just kept staring at something in his hands. She saw it was a picture of the two of them, taken when they were younger. In the photograph, Harry’s head was resting on her shoulder and she was propped up against him. Eyes never straying from the image, he reached for his glass and downed the contents. 

 

Hermione sat next to Harry, wishing desperately to hold him, to comfort him. She used to be good at mothering him, but not anymore. And that thought hurt worse than any other. This brave, compassionate wizard had been just as alone as she was, yet he had befriended her during a crucial time in their lives. She had never once left him while they were fighting Voldemort. So why did she find spending time with Harry so unimportant after the Dark Lord’s defeat? Merlin, Ron was right. Even after all these years, she still didn’t have her priorities straight.

 

 

Placing the picture on the table, Harry next picked up that day’s edition of the Daily Prophet and read the headline.

_Hermione Granger, of the famous Golden Trio, found dead!_

_Best friend, and Head Auror, Harry Potter, called to Niefern, Germany to investigate! We have it on good authority that Miss Granger was supposed to attend the widely-criticised demonstration concerning Erkling habitats in the Black Forest. As you know, dear readers, Erklings are some of the Darkest creatures in the wizarding world. Their behaviour is volatile and unpredictable - stealing babies, feasting on children, ravaging adults that invade their territory, just to name a few characteristics. Study after lengthy study has found the species to be detrimental to society-at-large. However, Miss Granger’s views are well-known to the public, and it seems she could not be dissuaded from provoking a confrontation with the last remaining Erklings. It is quite possible she became a victim of her own overzealous nature concerning conservation. Let’s hope the next candidate will show some restraint._

Harry crumpled the paper and threw the wadded parchment across room. He laid his head down on his arms, sobbing quietly.

“Dad?” 

After a loud sniff, Harry raised his head to see Albus standing in the doorway, a pensive expression on his face. The boy came to the side of Harry’s chair and placed his hand on his father’s arm. With an innocence born only of the young and naïve, Albus asked, “Did Aunt Hermione miss another meeting?” 

Harry could not suppress a moan of despair and grief. “No, son,” he managed. He pulled Albus onto his lap and cuddled him close. “Aunt Hermione is… is… gone.”

“Did she finally take a holiday?” 

“No,” Harry said gently. “She went to heaven, love.” 

Albus withdrew from his father. “But, Santa told me that he would make sure Aunt Hermione got home safe!” His lower lip began to tremble and tears swam in his eyes. “He promised she would! It’s not fair!”

Harry’s face mirrored that of his son’s. “I know, Al, but sometimes life isn’t fair.”

Albus now cried openly and threw his arms around his father’s neck, burying his runny nose against Harry’s shoulder. 

 

 

“No! I’m here!” Hermione shouted to the two men she loved most in the world. 

They could not hear her.

“These are but shadows, Miss Granger.”

She turned swiftly to Snape. “But I’m alive!” She thumped her chest. “I’m not the witch I was. I refuse to be the person that I’ve seen tonight. Why show me this, if I was past all hope?”

“Because I delight in torturing you?” Snape suggested innocently. 

His off-putting nature wasn’t going to rile her, not this time. “Tell me I can change this outcome,” she implored, grabbing his hand.

He shook her loose. “I can tell you nothing. However, I’ve been assured by _certain parties_ , that if you were to alter your behaviour, you might avoid disasters such as this one.”

“I swear by Merlin, by the Saints, by the Holy Rood if you want, that I’ll keep Harry and Albus at the centre of my life. I’ll find a way to balance life and career. I’ll hire more staff. I’ll –”

“Miss Granger,” Snape warned. “I care not what you do in your life, only that you live it to the fullest. It is, after all, what we all died for.”

She nodded and gave him a meek look. “Can you…” 

He drew his black cloak around his shoulders and glared at her. “Can I what?”

“Could you give Ron a message when you go back?”

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Snape muttered, rolling his eyes. “You can tell me. I won’t promise to give it to him.”

“Would you tell him that I miss him, and that I hope he’s happy.” 

Snape waited, assuming there was more to her missive. When she said nothing further, he prompted, “Is that all? No declaration of disgustingly sappy, undying love?”

She shook her head. “No. I love him, yes, but not in that way. I thought I did, but tonight was a paradigm shift in more than one respect.”

“Indeed.” Snape glanced at the scene of Harry and Albus comforting each other and his eyes softened just the tiniest bit. “Be sure of your heart, Miss Granger. I won’t have you toying with their affections.”

“Yes, sir.” 

With the flare of a Muggle magician, Snape gave a courtly bow, twirled his robe, and was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving Hermione staring at her bedpost.

@@@

“Dad.”

Harry Potter rolled over in his bed and groaned.

“Dad!” 

This time, there was a small hand shaking his shoulder to accompany the insistent voice. 

“It’s time to get up. It’s Christmas!”

Harry opened one bleary eye and regarded his son. “What time is it?”

Albus looked at the wall clock and concentrated, trying to remember his numbers. “If the big hand is on the seven and the little hand is on the six, what time is that?”

“Half-six, which is way too early to be up, even on Christmas.”

The boy propped his head on the bed, his bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “But I want to see if Santa brought my present.”

Harry grimaced. “Al, I’m sure Santa did his best. But you know that some wishes are just beyond Santa’s power to grant.”

Albus tugged his father’s hand. “I know, Dad. I just want to check, please?”

Anticipating the disappointment he would see in his son’s eyes, Harry rose and donned a dressing gown over his sleep shirt and trousers. He let himself be led downstairs to the front room, where the Christmas tree stood. There was an abundance of gifts in the stockings and underneath the tree, which Harry knew were presents from friends and other family members that had arrived by owl. 

Albus’ hand squeezed his before letting go as the boy looked at the bounty. He dropped to his knees and pulled out a brightly-wrapped green and red package. He read the nametag and turned to Harry.

“It says my name,” he whispered in awe.

Harry smiled. “I’m sure they all have your name on them.” He sat in an old rocking chair nearest the hearth and lit the fire. “Who’s it from?”

Albus stood and took the gift to his father. “I think it’s from Santa.”

“Is that so?” Harry read the tag and frowned. It did indeed say, _From Santa_ , in spiky, scrawling script. “What the…” He caught himself before he swore. 

“Can I open it?”

An uneasy feeling filled Harry the longer he gazed at the package. “Give me a minute to check it out, yeah?” He ran several detection and diagnostic spells over the box. Finding nothing wrong, he handed the box back to his son. “Open it carefully.”

As if handling a piece of glass, Albus removed the paper and lifted the lid. The excitement in his eyes morphed into confusion. “It’s a piece of parchment.” He retrieved the note and handed it to his father.

 

 _You can find your heart’s desire in the kitchen._

 

Albus clapped and squealed. “I bet Aunt Hermione’s in the kitchen!”

Voice thick with caution, Harry tried to temper his son’s enthusiasm. “Al, I don’t think she’ll be –”

“– hiding in the kitchen any longer,” came a welcome voice.

Albus shot off like a Snitch and lunged at Hermione, who scooped him up in her arms and snuggled him close. Harry slowly rose from his seat and watched as Hermione entered the room with her precious bundle. “You’re here,” he said nervously. 

“I am.” She stopped in front of him and cupped his cheek with a free hand. “I’m so, so sorry, Harry,” she whispered. 

He closed his eyes and nuzzled into her palm, covering her hand with his own to keep it there. “You’re here for Christmas.”

With Albus still wrapped around her, she leaned in and hugged Harry. “I’m here for the other days, too… if you want.”

“She can stay here forever, can’t she, Dad?” 

Harry opened his eyes and Hermione pulled away. “Aunt Hermione is a busy witch, Albus. She can’t be here all the time.”

“I know that. But when I go to Hogwarts, you’ll be all alone and I want her to stay with you when I’m gone.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “We’ll talk about that later, Albus.” She tickled his tummy, earning a childish giggle. “You’d better open the rest of your presents,” she said and tried to put him down, but he tightened his grip. “Don’t you want them?”

Albus buried his face in Hermione’s hair. “I already got the one I wanted.”

Her eyes closed and she pressed a kiss to Albus’ temple. “I love you, little one.”

“Al, could you please open the rest of your gifts for a little while? I need to talk to Aunt Hermione in the other room.”

Reluctantly, Albus drew back and allowed himself to be lowered to the floor, where he proceeded to choose another package to unwrap. He became so focused that he didn’t notice his father pull Hermione into the kitchen.

Once there, however, Harry crossed his arms and gave her a hard look. “What are you playing at?”

She winced at his tone. “I deserve that, I know.”

“Damn right, you do. You come in here like bloody St. Nicholas and think you can buy my son’s affections with a few well-timed visits and expensive gifts?”

“No, never,” she whispered. She bit her lower lip. “I promise you that I have had a life-changing event turn my perspective around. I-I didn’t realise, you see, that I’d almost completely cut you and Albus out of my life. I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I caused you even a fraction of the hurt I’ve felt all night.”

Harry studied her intently. “What was this life-changing event?”

She smiled and pulled the legs of her tartan pyjamas up, revealing the rainbow colours adorning her feet. “Socks,” she said simply. 

“Socks?” Harry repeated with a chuckle. “Those look like something Dumbledore would’ve worn.”

“Maybe,” she agreed with a grin. 

The two stared at each other; one with hope, the other with trepidation. “I mean it, Hermione. I’ll give you one chance to prove yourself. I won’t have you hurting Albus. You mean too much to him.”

“What about you?”

Harry blushed to the roots of his hair. “You know I’ll always love you.”

She stepped closer to him, near enough to share the same breath. “Will you?” she asked quietly.

His fingers reached to bury themselves in her wild mane. “Yes,” he murmured and closed the gap, pressing his lips to hers in a tentative kiss.

Hermione whimpered and wound her arms around his neck. She pulled back enough to whisper, “Me too.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” he groaned. He delved in for another kiss, wanting to make up for lost time.

@@@

While his father was still talking with Hermione, Albus Severus Potter fished a Chocolate Frog from among the many bits and bobs in his stocking. Once the sweet amphibian had been devoured, he turned over the wizard trading card and smiled.

Severus Snape.

The former Headmaster of Hogwarts had a dour countenance, lank black hair, and stately robes – all quite fitting of his hero status, in the opinion of the boy studying the man’s image. After checking to make sure that his father or aunt had not returned, Albus held the card close and whispered, “Thank you.”

Severus nodded with a smirk, gave Albus a wink, and then resumed his rigid stance and irritated glower within the frame. The boy knew the man he was named after was definitely not Santa Claus, but Albus was content in the knowledge that if he ever needed something – something important – he could ask Severus again, and the wizard would try to provide it for him. 

Maybe, Albus thought, next year, he would ask for a baby brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MiHnn's prompts were:
> 
> \- Hermione finds herself joining a single father and his daughter/son for Christmas
> 
> \- Hermione experiences her own Christmas Carol. Not as a grouch, but as a workaholic.


End file.
